Flightless Bird
by X-Kali-X
Summary: When competing in the games couldn't break Katniss Everdeen, a new approach was needed, and the Quell altered to fit as required. Now, twenty five years later and gearing up to mentor in the 100th annual Hunger Games, can Katniss ever truly piece herself together, and forgive the events of so long ago? Rated T for character death.
1. Chapter 1

The train skims silently through the woods, trees whipping past at unbelievable speed. I stare out the window, trying to think of anything but the weeks ahead.

Of course this isn't particularly fair of me, but if the alternative is to drink as much as Haymitch used to, then it's better for everyone that I simply try and pretend it isn't happening until that is no longer a possibility. I think that might happen any minute now.

The door slides open with a barely discernible hiss and he comes in. His lopsided tread is so familiar to me that I know without turning around who it is waiting for me. The bed sags underneath me as he sits beside me and I lean against his shoulder.

"It's going to be much harder this year, I think."

"Yeah." His voice is low, tinged with experience and the regret of twenty five years. The regret of forty nine lives lost. "At least… at least we get the time to try and prepare them."

"Three months isn't enough. You know that as much as I do. Some of the careers have trained for years."

"It's still better than nothing," he says, his shoulder rising and falling slightly beneath my head. I sigh, because he is right of course. Three months to train the tributes, courtesy of the fourth Quarter Quell, destined to be the grandest Hunger Games ever held.

"I just… I just don't think I'll ever be able to look Madge in the eye again if I can't bring Maysilee home," I stutter. "But there's Jon to think about as well." I bite my lip and feel his arm come to rest around my waist as Peeta pulls me in tight. He doesn't speak at first, just holds me in his arms. For a moment, I feel safe and warmed by his touch, but it can't last.

"Come on," he says, far too soon, "It's nearly dinner."

Effie Trinket barely looks a day older than she did when we first met her, the reaping for the seventy fourth annual Hunger Games. This year, her wig is a bright lime green and she smiles with relief as we enter the food cart. Maysilee and Jon are sat across from one another at the table, each determinately avoiding the eyes of the other. Peeta and I sit opposite each other and beside them, and Effie is at the head of the table. The empty seat makes the absence of our fellow mentor especially conspicuous.

The food is sumptuous, and both Maysilee and Jon are eating as if they have never seen food before in their lives. Even though Maysilee grew up in town and was a regular visitor to the victors village, she has never eaten as well as she can right now, and Jon had probably never had enough to eat in his life judging by the size of him. Three months in the capitol will certainly boost his chances in the arena, I tell myself, if only because it will give him the chance to gain a little weight.

"So," Peeta says, buttering himself one of the soft white rolls liberally before dipping it in the thick orange sauce the duck rests in, "Let's start simply – do you want to train together, or alone." The two tributes finally glance at one another and then quickly away again. "Alright," he says, biting into the soggy bread, "Alone it is then. You've got three months until the games – tomorrow night, you'll meet your stylists and we'll have the tribute parade, but after that you'll be locked in the training centre until interview day. You can choose what to work on, but bear in mind that each of us – all three of us of course – only have our own certain set of skills to work with, so it's probably best if you choose something one of us is good at." Jon is nodding, hanging on Peeta's every word. Maysilee simply stares down at her plate, eating in small bites and focusing on the food.

"Where is Gale?" Effie asks after a moment, breaking the silence. I glance up at the empty chair for a moment and then shrug.

"In his compartment probably. He'll be here later for the recap of the reaping."

"Oh good," Effie trills, "It will be easier to have training discussions if all three of you are present."

All three of us. Gale, Peeta and I. The mentors of district 12. "I imagine it will be a busy year for Gale, what with it being a Quell and all. He is the only surviving Quell winner, after all." I nod, but do not trust myself to speak. Peeta says something, but I miss both his words and Effie's reply.

Three months in the capitol before the games. The tributes will remain in the centre of course, but not the mentors. We'll be expected to mingle with the well connected, to attend parties every day and make new friends. I'd leave it to Peeta if I could – he's so much better at it than I am anyway – but that just wouldn't do. We have to present a united front after all, we star crossed lovers from district twelve. We have to maintain our happy ending.

I feel Peeta's leg brush against mine and when I look up there is concern in his eyes. I smile weakly and return my attention to the food. When we've eaten we move to the television. I curl up beside Peeta, while Maysilee and Jon sit as far apart from one another as is possible. The screen lights up and I recognise the gleaming justice building of district one.

One by one we watch as tributes are reaped, or volunteer, for the 100th annual Hunger Games. Peeta is the studious one, recording names in his little journal. He'll keep an eye on the other tributes and learn as much as he can about them. I just watch, focusing on the few who stay in my mind.

The careers are always a danger, and the boy from district two has an almost familiar edge to his face, and it takes me only a moment to place it. He looks decidedly like Cato, the district two male tribute from my own Games. I glance at Peeta and see that he too has noticed the similarity.

District four will be trained and mentored by Finnick, of course, which will give them some advantage, but the boy is already strong and muscled and to put it lightly the girl is… well she's beautiful. There's one, I think, who won't struggle to find any sponsors. Young and slim with waves and waves of soft curling brown hair, large eyes the same sea green as Finnicks, she will have the capitol drooling at her feet.

I wonder, for a moment, if it might be kinder for her to die in the games than to survive to live the way Finnick did for so very long. They almost broke him in the Capitol.

From district six, a thin reedy boy with sharp eyes catches my attention, and from seven there's a boy almost as huge as Thresh had been.

Everyone is quiet when a pair of twelve year olds are reaped from district ten. No one outside the Capitol likes the Games, but everything seems so much worse when the tributes are so small. Something catches in my throat as I watch the little girl stumble up to the stage, and Peeta's hand grips mine tightly, keeping me present.

I hear someone shifting behind me and turn to look. Gale is leaning against the wall, looking not a day older than he did the day he was reaped. Of course, Peeta and I look barely older than twenty either, but that's just what the Capitol does these days. Very few victors are permitted to look their age anymore.

"Looks like there could be a few contenders this year," Gale says calmly, eyes moving from Maysilee to Jon. They both jump at the sound of his voice. "There's a bad start," he says. "Listen. Pay attention to your surroundings. Anyone could attack you from any side at any moment. Always be ready for an attack. Use your ears." He pushes himself up from his position leaning against the wall and leaves the compartment. In the silence that follows, my eyes fall to the slim gold band across my finger that drew the first line between Gale and me. He didn't attend the wedding, though of course he'd been invited. My whole family had been there, except my fake cousin.

I can still see, almost perfectly, how beautiful Prim had been in the soft yellow dress Cinna had made for her, how rosy her cheeks had been as she waited for the ceremony to begin. I can remember Haymitch, actually sober for a change (it didn't last) as he took my arm and supported me down the aisle. And Peeta, waiting for me at the other end. Peeta taking my hand. Peeta becoming my husband.

We go back to our room together and lie silently beside each other in the darkened compartment. "I'll be here for you," he says, "Whenever you need me."

"I know," I whisper. He always has been, but this year I think I'll need him more than ever. As his breathing falls into the regular cadence of sleep, my mind wanders over the faces of the tributes we've mentored together over the years. The Games are the only time Gale and I ever talk anymore, which I suppose could be considered ironic, for it was the Games that changed everything between us, and the Games that left both of us unable to look each other in the eyes.

The seventy fourth Games were one thing, but it was the third Quarter Quell that destroyed any hope of repairing my friendship with Gale. That year is imprinted upon my mind more harshly than anything other than my own Games, from the reading of the card right up until the moment Gale was crowned victor.

"_On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them never emerge unscathed, the tributes shall be reaped from the families of all current victors. For the purposes of these games, volunteering shall be prohibited."_

Of course I knew what it meant. The Quell was designed to break me in the way my own experience in the arena had so spectacularly failed to do, but even I never saw the twist we learned on the morning of the reaping.

My family; rather, my family as the Capitol knew them.

Prim and Gale, tributes in the Seventy Fifth annual Hunger Games.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're in good hands with those two," I say, smiling a little at the anxious looking Maysilee, "Cinna and Portia have been taking care of district twelve since before you were born, and we haven't had a single coal miner costume since they started work." This year, the theme appears to be sparks. Maysilee and Jon are wearing a rippling black fabric run through with veins that flash orange, red, yellow and occasionally a very light blue, giving the impression that they are about to burst into flame. Maysilee's skirt and Jon's cape will flare behind them, as I am sure was Cinna's intention. They will be stunning, as the tributes from twelve always are.

Maysilee nods and swallows, running her hands tentatively down her dress. "Why don't you go down with Effie?" I suggest. Maysilee smiles very faintly and hops down from the table she'd been perched on, heading for the door. Effie is, I know, sat outside waiting for her. I take Maysilee's place upon the table and wait for Cinna to reappear from the only other door into the room, the wheels of his chair making a slight electric whir as he steers himself to the low table against the wall.

"How's it been this year?" I ask him.

"So-so," he replies with a shrug. He folds a strip of black cloth on the side and my eyes fix, as always, upon his left hand, where two of his fingers are missing. One is gone from his right hand as well, I know. This is only a part of price he paid for his part in my wedding, for the secret alteration he made to my dress. I loved it, and the Capitol loved it too. Flaming dresses were all the rage that year, but Cinna paid the price, of course. I was surprised it wasn't his life, but then Cinna was the example, his punishment broadcast live to the districts. Not the Capitol of course, as far as most of them know my dress was nothing more than an impressive fashion statement.

I think briefly of Plutarch Heavensbee, swinging beneath the steel gallows and close my eyes. I think of Peeta, twisting at the ring upon my finger in an attempt to keep myself in the present. I feel Cinna's hands brush against my own and I look at him. He does look old. The Capitol has allowed him to age, and the lines around his eyes make me feel old too, something I don't feel very often. Mostly, I just feel lost.

We go down to the ground floor of the remake centre together, where twelve chariots wait to parade the victors through the Capitol. I smile grimly to Finnick waiting by the district four chariot, and nod politely to Johanna Mason. She doesn't mentor the tributes officially anymore, there are younger people to do that for her, but she still comes every year. She doesn't say as much, but I think we victors might be the only friends she has.

The doors roll open and I help Maysilee up into the chariot as Jon climbs in on the other side. "Be brave," Peeta tells them both, smiling in a reassuring fashion. Gale and I remain silent as the first chariot rolls out of the remake centre.

The moment the tributes from twelve are out of the door, Capitol attendants usher the mentors into the transport that will shuttle us to the training centre so that we're there to welcome the tributes at the end of the parade. An entire wall is dedicated to a screen showing the proceedings and we are sat in a line so that we can watch and observe, keeping an eye on our tributes, their competition and the crowds.

Flashing jewels from one, whirring gears from three, trees from seven and of course the flaming pair bringing up the rear, a highly anticipated staple of every tribute parade.

Jon stares straight ahead, his jaw set and his brow furrowed. He may stand a chance with training, if he can gain enough muscle. Beside him, Maysilee's eyes are wide, accented by the very light amount of make-up Cinna has employed. She looks tiny, even beside skinny Jon who at least has some height to him. At only fourteen years old, it is hard to imagine Maysilee could qualify as a threat to anyone in these games.

I watch her eyes, fixed firmly ahead of her and suddenly I am there once more, twenty five years ago as the tributes rolled out of the training centre to fierce cries and whoops from the assembled crowd, the tributes from twelve unearthly as they stared straight ahead, Gale as imposing as it seems possible for any human to ever be and Prim… little Prim, a tiny glowing ember I imagine might be snuffed out at any second.

Pressure upon my hand brings me back to the present. I look to the side, expecting to see Peeta, but it is Finnick who squeezes my hand. I return the gesture and he nods, letting me know that he understands.

We slide to a stop and disembark, reaching the doors just in time to see the first tributes roll into the building. Maysilee and Jon are both shaking when they arrive, but he seems a little elated by their journey through the Capitol. Maysilee simply seems terrified.

We ride together in an awkward silence up to the top floor, out of the lift and past the door to the roof. I look to Peeta and he reads the question in my eyes. Who will it be this year?

The avoxes stand, heads bowed, behind the table. Their eyes are fixed firmly upon the floor and even from here I can see the odd way in which they hold their jaws – a remnant of the process by which the Capitol has removed their tongues. Every year since the failed rebellion, we have been served by different, always recognisable faces.

My throat is dry as I approach them, trying my best to act as though I am paying them no attention, although of course they hold nearly all of my attention. The woman I recognise first, although I haven't seen her since the third Quell. Her name is Lavinia, and she was the very first avox I met in the Capitol. She is also the first person I failed to save.

To her right stands a tall, well-built man whom it takes me a moment to identify, but when I do recognise him I feel faint for a moment. We only really met once and we exchanged few words, but I know who he is. His name is Boggs, and he was a soldier in district thirteen – one of President Coin's best men, reduced to a servant of the Capitol, just like the rest of us.

Peeta's hand in mine keeps me upright until we reach the dinner table, where I slump down into my seat. The final day of the war is playing in my head – how we victors were forced to stay and watch as President Coin and the other notable leaders of the rebellion were publically executed. The event was broadcast across Panem, and they replayed it every few weeks in the years that followed – required viewing of course.

There is a moment in the film where the camera pans across the faces of the victors – Gale, with his face set in a scowl, Finnick and Annie determinately not looking at each other, trying not to create an association, old Mags with her arms around Annie's shaking shoulders. Haymitch wasn't with us of course. He was on the platform beside Coin, Plutarch and other people I didn't know. I shake my head in an attempt to dispel the memory, and turn my attention to the food before me. It is standard Capitol fare, which means (of course) that it is amazing. Maysilee and Jon are already digging in, and Gale is helping himself. Peeta's eyes are upon me, however, and I know he won't eat until I do. Slowly, I go through the motions of putting food upon my plate, of eating and drinking – even going so far as to attempt to join in Effie's small talk. I'm terrible at it as always, but I think she appreciates that I try.

As the main course is taken away, I excuse myself from the table, claiming a headache. Peeta rises with me and together we retreat to the only sanctuary we have here in the Capitol: the roof. We sit together, as we first did almost twenty six years ago, gazing out over the glistening Capitol. Below us, a party is in full swing across the streets. We are not expected to attend today, but tomorrow it will be a different story.

We don't talk as we sit there – Peeta and I have come to appreciate silence wherever we can find it – instead we simply hold each other. Hours pass and the party comes to a close. As the capitol residents retire, the avoxes sweep through the streets, clearing the refuse away so that the streets remain as pristine as ever.

"They can't have a little bit of rubbish stuck to their shoe now, can they?" Peeta says, grinning a little and breaking the silence between us.

"Most of it's food," I reply, my nose wrinkled in disgust. Again there is silence, but it doesn't last long.

"They train with the Capitol experts every morning," he says, "And with their mentors in the afternoon. If the two of them still want to train separately then we should give them each a chance with the three of us tomorrow, see what they're good at."

"I'll have to practise a little in the morning," I say, "It's been a long time since I held a bow."

"Gale will want to do something similar I expect," Peeta says with a nod, "They've given the mentors access to the old training room in the mornings while the tributes are in private sessions."

It's times like these I remember how incompetent I am as a mentor. Peeta has spent the day finding out the plans for the training of the tributes, while I have spent it lost in memories and nightmares of games long since passed.

"They've even given the mentors permission to train tributes from other districts," he says with a laugh, "Which could prove interesting."

"I wouldn't mind helping Finnick, or even Johanna or Enobaria," I say, "But I don't want to help anyone else."

"No. Me neither. But you never know what the arena will be. Who knows what skills they'll actually need."

"Probably nothing we can teach them in three months time."

"No, probably not."


End file.
